


Family Dinner

by AnnieVH



Series: Don't Come Back [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Family Dinner, Gen, Sexism, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6382942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Golds sit down for dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this story: brief mention of child abuse, a little bit of underage drinking.
> 
> Prompt: nevermore913 requested a family dinner, with Belle serving.
> 
> Warnings for the verse: past domestic abuse (including psychological, verbal and sexual), past child abuse, terrible parenting all around. Anti-Milah, anti-Malcolm. Rated mature just for safety.
> 
> Verse: Don't Come Back, a Behind Closed Doors remix
> 
> Beta: MaddieBonanaFana

When Rumple was growing up, he realized that Storybrooke was not a place people came to start over, but a place people came to get stuck. He thought things might have changed in a decade, but they hadn't. On his way back to the house, he could see that the streets and the shops still looked the same, and he couldn't tell if the people had changed at all because they still had that same look on their faces. The “I wish I were anywhere but here” look. The citizens might be new, but they had learned fast that this was it, this was as far as their lives could go and they might as well get used to it.

The only one who seemed to like the little town, truly, was Malcolm Gold. He had crossed the ocean twenty years prior to buy himself a better life and a new beginning. In his mind, that probably felt like moving forward. To Rumple, it just seemed like another way to get stuck.

“ _Abandon all hope_ ,” he muttered to himself, and then shook his head. He was being dramatic. And a pessimist. Two things he couldn't afford to be right now. Besides, all in all, things were going well. Or, at least, not as bad as they could be.

He entered the house quietly, though the tapping of his cane was bound to give him away. If Malcolm heard him come in, he'd call him over to his study and demand a recount of his meeting with the Sheriff. It was bound to happen, and Rumple wanted to postpone that for as long as he could. He couldn't handle any more humiliation, at least not on the first day.

However, in the silence of the foyer, the only thing he could hear were the maid's heel, clacking down the stairs. It felt strange to have another soul in the house. Malcolm Gold liked silence and solitude, so the house staff would usually be gone by the time Rumple came home from school. Apparently, the old man had outgrown his isolation issues.

“Welcome back, Mr. Gold,” Belle wished him, making an effort to smile. He tried to reciprocate, with moderate success.

“Thank you, Belle. Shouldn't you be heading home?”

“I still have to serve dinner. I usually don't, but I suppose tonight is a special occasion.”

Rumple frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You know, with you and Bae moving in. I suppose your father wants a family dinner.”

“He'll be joining us for dinner?”

“Shouldn't he?” she asked, as if she didn't understand his confusion. Of course she didn't. To Belle, Malcolm just wanted to have a meal with his son and grandson, nothing wrong with that.

“Yes, well,” he said. “I'll go upstairs and unpack.”

“It's been done, sir.”

“I'm sorry?”

“As per your father's instructions, I've unpacked everything, and made the bed. I tried to unpack your son's as well, but he said he could handle things.”

The urge to get angry at his father burned for the fraction of a second, and then it died. The old man should know better than to send Belle to rummage through his things without his permission, but he lacked the energy to start a fight over something so petty. He had spent the entire day worried about something, be it Milah or Bae's new school or the chances of finding a job. All he wanted was to come home and have dinner with his son, preferably without any drama.

“It's fine,” he sighed. “Thank you, Belle.”

“It was no trouble, sir,” she said, an automatic response of somebody who had been thoroughly conditioned by Malcolm Gold. “If you let me know when the rest of your things arrive, I'll be glad to unpack those as well.”

“There... really isn't anything else,” he answered, making her look up, confused only by a split second before it dawned on her that that was it. Everything him and his teenage son owned could fit into two suitcases and a backpack.

“Oh,” Belle said. Though her tone was apologetic, it still elicited that unpleasant, yet familiar, feeling of failure.

Rumple said, “But thank you, anyway,” to cover his own shame. “Is Bae upstairs? Did he leave the room?”

“No, Mr. Gold. I made him a sandwich, though. He looked fine the last time I checked.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Gold.”

“Won't it get confusing if you have to call us both Mr. Gold?”

“Three.”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, fighting a surge of frustration. There were bad childhood memories he couldn't forget even if he tried to, but those tiny little quirks that his father had, and that had always made him ashamed of being Malcolm Gold's son, _those_ he'd actually forgotten. “You don't have to call Bae _mister.”_

“I can manage, sir,” she insisted. “Besides, I don't think Mr. Gold would approve of anything else.”

“No, I suppose he wouldn't.”

“It's really no bother, sir,” she insisted.

“I'll just... I'll go check on Bae. I'm sorry.”

He added the apology as an afterthought, but it still felt right. When it came to his father, it always did.

 

*

 

Junior was fussing over the boy by the time Malcolm joined them for dinner, smoothing his shirt and whispering something with a sweet, reassuring sound. It seemed about right that Junior would act like a mother-hen. His aunt had been like that, and Junior loved being the apple of her eye. Baelfire didn’t seem as pleased, though, and smiled at his father with the impatience of a teenager who didn’t want to be babied, but indulged his old man.

It was hard to make the boy out. By nature, Malcolm was a pessimist, so he’d expected the worst. He'd been ready for Junior to bring home a little troublemaker. It was unlikely that his grandson would resemble the paternal side of the family, for better or worse. Junior just didn't cause that much of an impression. Odds were, the boy would take after his mother. Trashy, loud, insolent, mouthy, yes, that seemed about right for that girl's offspring. Junior had never been able to keep her under control, why would it be any different with his son? The thought of it was amusing, though. He'd enjoy putting the lad in his place, while Junior watched, wide-eyed and stammering for his father not to be so harsh.

But Baelfire looked nothing like Milah, at least at first glance. He had been polite. A little shy, which was one of Junior’s most infuriating traits when he was growing up, but not too much. He’d hesitated when Malcolm had called him, as if his grandfather (good lord, how he detested that word!) should be feared, which was a good thing. But he’d approached him anyway, which meant the lad had stones, and Malcolm appreciated that. If he kept to himself and didn’t make a mess, he might just let the lad be for the few months he lived under his roof.

Junior was wearing the same wrinkled suit he had on that morning, and he'd asked Bae to change into trousers and a clean white shirt, which was probably the best clothes he had.

“Is this a formal dinner?” he said, making his son look up and Baelfire whip his whole body around to face him.

“It’s a special occasion, I think,” Junior answered, unsure, one bony hand falling on his son’s shoulder automatically. How was he planning on sending the lad off to school if he couldn’t seem to stop touching him for five minutes?

“I wasn’t criticizing,” Malcolm said.

He sat down at the head of the table. Junior waited until Baelfire was seated at Malcolm’s left before taking the chair to his right. Belle came into the dinning room right after, carrying a large tray. It was heavy and she couldn’t keep a straight posture, which was always satisfying. That girl had had her chin up for too long. Junior made a point at looking the other way, her uniform clearly making him uncomfortable. He’d have to get over his issues if he wanted to live in that house, though. There was a reason why Belle dressed like this, and he wasn’t about to pay for another uniform. He eyed the lad, to check if he, too, was looking down or if he fancied her. He was, after all, a teenager. Unless Junior had raised him all wrong, which was a possibility. But Baelfire was too busy staring at the large quantities of food on the tray.

“You’ve never seen a roast, laddie?” Malcolm teased.

Baelfire looked at him, then at his father, and back at the food, without saying a word. He didn’t have to. Malcolm could imagine that the life they’d led until now hadn't been a plentiful one.

He asked, “What do you lads usually eat? I can have the cook make-”

“You have a cook?” Bae said, surprised.

“Well, I can’t trust Belle not to poison me, isn’t that right, Princess?”

Belle threw him a smirk. “That sounds about right, Mr. Gold.”

“Besides, the girl can barely boil water for tea.”

Belle walked around to his side and cut into the roast. After serving a generous piece to his plate, she served potatoes and peas, moving slowly to avoid spilling anything on the table cloth she’d have to wash later. When she approached Junior, he tried to take the knife from her hand before she could serve him, saying, “I can do that myself, Belle, there’s no need.”

“Junior, I’m starting to think you want Belle’s job. Let the poor girl work.”

“It’s alright, Mr. Gold,” she said, and Junior heeded her. Of course he did. What was the problem with that boy and women?

After the young laddie had been served, she retrieved into the kitchen.

Baelfire couldn’t look away from the food on his plate, and even Junior seemed to be salivating. But to their credit, they didn’t move until Malcolm cut into his own meat. After that, they dug in desperately.

“Dear lord, how long since the two of you had a decent meal?” Malcolm said.

Junior didn't answer, but Baelfire said, “A while,” before shoving a large potato inside his mouth.

“Clearly. Junior, you have to feed the laddie, you know? He’s growing.”

“I’m alright, Gran-”

Malcolm darted narrow eyes at him and Bae swallowed the word along with a barely chewed piece of roast.

“I mean, I’m alright. Malcolm.”

“Good lad.”

“Do you plan on joining us for dinner every night?” Junior asked, making it sound like the idea was a nuisance. Not that Malcolm didn’t think the same thing.

“Of course not. My schedule won’t allow it. This is a special occasion, though.” He raised an empty wine glass. “The return of the prodigal son, and all that. Ah! The wine! Just in time, Princess.” He offered Belle his glass and she poured generously from the decanter. Then she tried to fill Junior’s glass, but he told her to stop halfway through. “C’mon, Junior. It’s a celebration. And you don't want to miss this.” He made a spectacle at sniffing the wine. “Nothing like a good Cabernet.”

Junior still said, “I’m good.”

“You’re no fun, laddie. Princess, where are you going?” he said, stopping Belle before she could return to the kitchen. “The young laddie’s glass is empty.”

Baelfire sat up in his chair, suddenly finding something more interesting than the roast. But he deflated quickly when Junior said, “He’s fourteen, father. He’s not drinking.”

“C’mon, Junior-”

“No.”

“Please, dad,” Bae asked, giving Junior a pleading look. “Just a little bit.”

“Yes, he’s old enough, aren’t you, Baelfire?”

“I’m almost fifteen!”

Malcolm laughed. “He’s almost fifteen, laddie.”

“And you've let me have champagne once!”

“You've already let him have champagne!”

Junior sighed, easily defeated. He’d never had much of a backbone. “Just a sip, and that is it.”

The boy smiled and said, “Thank you, Papa.” And Junior looked like he was ready to melt from that title alone.

Belle poured carefully, no more than a finger, but Baelfire seemed happy anyway.

Malcolm raised his glass and proceeded his toast. “Well then, to the prodigal son’s return, then. I always knew this day would come.”

He offered Junior his glass, but he only side-eyed him, and limited himself to clinking Baelfire’s glass, saying, “To family.”

Baelfire agreed, “To family,” but offered Malcolm a little smile and touched his wineglass with his own. Malcolm winked at him and gulped down half of the Cabernet. Junior took a large sip and put the wine down.

Bae swallowed the little bit he was allowed to have slowly. There was a split-second grimace, and then he decided, “You can’t taste the grapes.”

From her corner, next to the door, Belle giggled, but hurriedly covered it with a hand.

Even Junior seemed to soften at that. “It’s not grape juice, son.”

“Yeah, it’s weird. But I like it.”

Malcolm suggested, “Maybe you should try the scotch-”

“Dad!”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Junior. I am only kidding.” He emptied his glass and snapped his fingers at Belle to come and pour him some more. “Don’t be stingy, Princess. Theeeere you go.” He gulped down twice, then sighed with contentment. “Though I fail to see the problem, Junior. I’ve been drinking Scotch since I was twelve.”

“Twelve, really?” Bae said, surprised. “Wow, that is really young.”

“I stole it from my father’s cabinet,” Malcolm told him, which seemed to impress the boy. “The old man was furious when he found out. Beat me senseless, but it was worth it.” He pointed at Junior. “Now, your father acts all self-righteous about it, but he used to do the same thing.”

“I did not,” Junior muttered, downing the rest of the wine.

“C’mon, Junior. I caught you red-handed. He was seventeen at the time. Never had a sip of Scotch in his life, but suddenly decided he wanted to steal from my liquor cabinet.”

“Really? Why?”

“Go figure. The lad had been a saint up until that day. Too much so. Maybe he received some horrible news. I think that was the day he found out your mother-”

“I’ve been drinking Scotch since I was fifteen,” Junior cut in, before Malcolm could finish.

Malcolm, who didn’t like to be contradicted, dropped the subject entirely to argue, “No, you haven’t.”

“I have. Aunt Violet let me try it on my birthday. That was her gift to me: a wristwatch and a sip from her glass.”

“She sounds cool,” Bae said.

“She was,” his father agreed, with a warm little smile. “She was very sweet.”

“Can I drink whiskey on my birthday, too?”

“It’s scotch,” Malcolm corrected.

“Is there a difference?”

“What have you been teaching this boy, Junior?”

His son ignored him and answered, “Ask me again in March. I'll think about it.”

“Okay. Uhn, Malcolm? Can I have more...”

Bae eyed the roast.

Malcolm snapped his fingers at Belle again. She put down the decanter and cut another piece. When she put it down on his plate, Bae tried to look her in the eye and smile politely. “Thank you. Princess.”

Malcolm choked on his wine and started laughing. At the same time, Junior all but shouted, _“Baelfire!”_ full of outrage. Trust Junior to make a storm in a teacup. Bae looked back at his father, then at Malcolm, unsure who was reacting accordingly.

“What? I-I just-”

“Don’t call her that,” his father said, very severe. “She has a name.”

“Oh, Junior! Belle doesn’t mind-”

“Yes, she does.”

“I’ll go put this away,” Belle said, collecting the decanter and scurrying out of the dinning room.

Bae continued to stare from his father’s angry face to Malcolm’s smile, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong. After a moment, Junior finally said, “Finish your dinner.”

Bae gave Malcolm one last look. Malcolm winked at him, making the corners of his mouth twitch. But ultimately, the laddie was a good son, if father had told him it wasn’t funny, he wasn’t about to start smiling now.

 

 


End file.
